


God of Sex

by Gem_Gem, KittieHill



Series: Kittie And Gem Stories [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempt at humour, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bad Dirty Talk, Bad Sex, Bottom Greg, Bottom John, Fluff and Humour, M/M, Mycroft is also not a Sex God, Poor John, Poor Mrs H, Premature Ejaculation, Pub talk, Sexual Humour, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is not a Sex God, Short One Shot, Terrible Oral, Top Greg, Top John, accidental facial, bad everything, bad kissing, honestly, poor Greg, the Holmes boys are shit at sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 03:23:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4813085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/20063.html?thread=120300383#t120300383">Prompt</a>: Sherlock and/or Mycroft think they are the God of Sex. Their enormous ego dictates that no one can best a Holmes, especially not when it comes to the delicate art of lovemaking.<br/>In reality, they are just really bad at it.<br/>And every so often John and Lestrade meet up in a pub to grouse and grumble about having ended up with the worst lay in history.<br/>----<br/>Alternatively, just describe a really bad sex scene between John/Sherlock or Lestrade/Mycroft. Where the Holmes denies it being his fault and insisting that he is fantastic.<br/>Please anon, make me laugh. (I'll bake you some peanut chocolate muffins)</p>
            </blockquote>





	God of Sex

**Author's Note:**

> So the lovely KittieHill and I wrote this little short one shot thing-y together today. It made us laugh and it was really fun to write, we hope it makes you laugh too.  
> I wrote John and she wrote the sexy Greg.
> 
> Beta'd by [Sherlockholmesconsultingvampire](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockholmesconsultingvampire/pseuds/sherlockholmesconsultingvampire)
> 
> Enjoy!

John walked to the bar and ordered two pints before finding an empty table in a darkened alcove; the pub was quiet, almost completely empty but given the nature of Greg’s work and the cases they often discussed it was easier to find a relatively empty pub for their weekly _‘let’s-get-piss-drunk-and-talk-about-our-boyfriend’_ chats. Lestrade entered ten minutes later, smiling apologetically at leaving John alone for so long. 

“Sorry mate, caught up in the office,” he grumbled, shrugging off his coat and taking a seat opposite John. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” John muttered with a sigh, rolling his shoulders in a weak impression of a shrug before he shook his head and pushed his mouth to the edge of his pint glass. “Actually, no. Sherlock is spinning plates. I don’t know why. I don’t want to know why. I just know he is. He’s already smashed fourteen—and I’m not sure if this makes it worse or not, but the plates he’s using are not all ours, no, some are Mrs. Hudson’s and the rest are plates he bought. Oh yeah. He went out, with my credit card no less, and bought fifty plates. Fifty, Greg. Just to smash on our living room carpet.”

Greg shook his head and took a sip of his pint, feeling the bitter beer flow down his throat, crisp and cool and perfectly refreshing after his shit day at work. “You have the patience of a saint,” he said before chuckling darkly. “Although it must be a weird Holmes thing. I woke up this morning to find Mycroft ironing his pants. He gets them professionally laundered but apparently they don’t iron them in the correct way so he has to redo them along with his handkerchiefs.”

John snorted into his drink and then turned with a sweep of his hand, pointing at Greg animatedly. “Oh my God, yes! Sherlock refolds every article of clothing. He won’t wash or iron them himself, oh no, he leaves all that for me—but once it’s all done and I put the pile of folded clothes on his bed for him to put away himself – because he has specific places for specific clothes – he complains that I’ve done it all wrong and will spend the rest of the day refolding everything and then putting it in its 'proper place',” he scoffed. “And don’t even get me started on the index thing he has going on. It’s not just the socks, I’ll tell you that much—God, how can he be so neat and tidy and completely, overly obsessed with things like that, yet he leaves petri dishes of mould, bags of fingers, and a whole clutter of… stuff, just lying around in the living room?”

Greg chuckled and realised how ridiculous it was that two professional grown men were sitting in a pub discussing their other halves like nagging old wives but he didn’t care as he supped down the rest of his pint and scrubbed through his hair. “Myc is meticulously tidy. I’ll come in from work and take my shoes off and he’s just –there- picking them up to ensure they’re perfectly straight on the mat. Or if I’m undressing for bed and leave my socks or pants on the floor, he has to get out of bed to put them in the hamper! Don’t even get me bloody started on wet towels,” Greg sighed before nodding to the bar. “Another round?”

“God, yes,” John laughed, rubbing his temples. “I think we need it—no, I think we deserve it. Christ… are we out of our minds, Greg? We must be crazy, truly insane, to be putting up with all this. They’re brilliant, really; I love Sherlock so, so, so bloody much… but Jesus, is he frustrating. And… just really bad in bed. I mean, almost unbelievably bad. It’s… I don’t know, just… sorry, you probably don’t want to know, but… damn.” 

Greg blinked rapidly and nervously before breaking. “Oh thank Christ, I’ve needed someone to talk to about this! Mycroft is just… awful! Horrible! He just… you wouldn’t even believe me if I told you,” he admitted, taking a step towards the bar. “Hold that thought!”

Greg sauntered back holding a tray with two pints, two Jaegerbombs and two shots of Jaeger on it for good measure. He was off tomorrow and fairly certain John was too and hell, they deserve it. He downed his shot and handed one to John before starting, “Indulge me, make me feel better by telling me how bad he is.”

“Are you serious?” John asked and shifted to face Lestrade a little more, his mouth curling up slowly as he lifted his eyebrows. “You’re not just… I mean—okay, well, if you… if you’re sure you want to know…?”

"Do you want me to go first?" Lestrade asked with a grin. “Because I have plenty of stories that would make your toes curl.”

John glanced around and then shuffled closer, motioning with his head. “Yeah. Yeah, you go first.”

“So, we’re eh… getting down to it,” Lestrade mumbled, taking another gulp of his drink for courage. “You better not say anything to anyone about this! Honestly, it was the first time Myc had bottomed with me and I was going for it, you know… legs over my shoulders, thrusting and really trying,” Lestrade cleared his throat, cheeks going pink, “and he’s just… lying there. No sound, but he was staring at me. Unblinking, unmoving. No stroking himself or stretching out, or touching me or ANYTHING! He just laid in silence and then when I stopped he asked ‘Oh was that not acceptable form?’… I mean… Jesus.”

“He…” John blinked several times, pursed his lips, scratched his cheek, shifted his position, and huffed in confusion. “He just… lay there? Staring at you? Like some sort of… well, sex doll?” 

“No.” Greg shook his head. “Sex dolls actually have facial expressions… it was more like… you know those polystyrene heads people put wigs on in shops? It was like that. Totally blank. He later informed me that it was a thoroughly enjoyable bit of coitus but he was preparing a draft for the Zambian trade meeting for the following month.”

“Oh my God,” John mumbled, laughing into his hand shortly. “What is it with these two bloody men? All right, I’ll, um, I’ll tell you one of mine…it’s fairly recent too so I’m still sort of trying to… I don’t know, God, right… this is already making me cringe—Okay. So. Sherlock, as you know, likes experimentation, which is… is fine. He asked me if he could, you know, um, suck me off… which, yeah, I said, yes. What he’d failed to tell me was that he’d never done it before and… and he... Oh God... this is harder than I thought it would be—he brings in a bloody note pad, right? Starts writing things down. Measures my… my everything. Takes so long to get me hard with his hand that I had to do it myself… and then… he measures me again… and… then there’s just spit… everywhere. It’s like he watched the worst kind of porn and was trying, but failing, to mimic what he had seen. And then he bit me, more than once. He couldn’t keep his damn teeth to himself and… he’s writing all this soddin’ down on his stupid, bloody note pad, and he… tsks at me, as if I’m the one in the wrong, as if it’s me ruining it and… God…”

Greg couldn’t help the snort which escaped him as he laughed and covered his mouth. “Sorry, sorry that’s not… it's not funny I know but… fucking hell.” Greg laughed heartily before taking a deep breath. “Right, I’m okay, sorry.” He finished his pint and gestured to the barman to bring another two pints over along with more shots. “Here's one for you. Sticking to sucking off… I came in from work, just after that big fraud case remember? With the tadpoles and the pink sock? Anyways I was stressed from everything and Mycroft offered to suck me. I of course said yes and stripped down. He got on his knees in front of the fire and it was perfect… just perfect. Then Anthea came in.” Greg smiled and paused as the barman brought the drinks before leaving. “So she’s there, tapping away at her mobile and asking Myc questions and he answers them with my cock still in his mouth! I couldn’t move, I was mortified but she didn’t even lift an eyebrow, just took the information and left and Mycroft couldn’t understand why I was upset!”

“Oh good lord,” John chuckled, shaking his head and then motioning to Greg with his glass. “That’s not as bad as Mrs. Bloody Hudson walking in on you—Christ! But she didn’t just walk in like normal, like, you know, on accident or anything. Nope. No. Sherlock called her in. I was… was, you know, making love to him on the settee and he mutters under his breath about scones and cream, and then shouts Mrs. Hudson up while I’m still—and he’s just bent over the bloody armrest of the settee, and she just walks in with a whole tray of scones and cream and strawberries and then it… just… just ends up all over the floor. I mean… I… I couldn’t look at her for weeks after that. The worst part was that Sherlock didn’t understand why I reacted the way I did! He couldn’t understand why it was weird and bloody wrong to call up the landlady for scones whilst you’re in the middle of shagging!”

Greg couldn’t stop the roar of laughter as he imagined John’s reaction, seeing his already flushed cheeks at remembering the issue was too delightful and he imagined how red and mortified he must have been at the actual point of interruption. “This is a bit personal but I suppose we’re friends enough to ask… but does Sherlock ever top? I need to compare but I’m not willing to discuss it unless he does… if you understand?” Greg blushed.

“Yes,” John muttered and looked away with a wince. “He’s topped at least three times and each time it was… bad.”

“What’s his… stamina like?” Greg cleared his throat. “I only ask because we go through the whole fuss of preparing me and getting me… y’know, ready… and then a few thrusts and he’s done and he starts talking about Governmental policy on the import of Cuban bananas or something and I’m still bent over with lube and jizz down my thighs with a stiffy!” Lestrade grumbled slightly louder than he had planned. He pulled back and gave a shy smile. “Sorry, sorry that was too much information.”

“Ah. Yeah. Well… um, with Sherlock, he… gets bored waiting and so, once I’ve prepared myself – because I’ve let him do it once and just… no – anyway, once I’m… ready and all that, I call him in and sometimes he doesn’t come back, like, at all, he’s left the flat or he’s doing the mind palace thing… and other times he complains to me about the time it took and how it shouldn’t take so long and that he was just in the middle of something, blah, blah blah—also, I have to get him hard again after, because he’s just… not, at all, and… then by the time that’s done, I have to reapply the, um, heh, the lube and he gets pissy about that.” John paused, scrubbed his hands down his face, and then continued with a strained sigh. “His stamina is okay. I mean, he is a bit... brisk, you know? And he’s angular and bony and his hips are sharp and… yeah, each and every time, I’m just left there, unsatisfied, and he either slumps his entire weight on me, or he just walks off. And sometimes, during, he gets really distracted and I just end up with him writing on my back with a pen, from somewhere, I don’t even know where, but he just writes equations onto my skin. He uses me like a human white board, Greg. One time I had the life cycle of a bloody woodlouse down the length of my entire back!”

“Fucking hell,” Greg laughed. “You poor bastard.”

“Sherlock’s even bad at kissing, you know,” John continued unprompted. “Just… tongue… everywhere, or he just purses his lips and stays that way through the entire thing and I just end up laughing or getting so frustrated that I have to just… walk away—Ha. I’ve got to tell you this, right, one time, I… um, I wanted to… to… you know, give him a blowjob… and it was going fine until he just came, right in my face, without any warning. He didn’t even say sorry and it went in my eyes, in my hair, up my soddin’ nose—my nose, Greg! I was smelling jizz for hours after,” John spluttered and then dissolved into giggles.

“Oh fuck, oh John stop I’m actually going to piss myself,” Greg chuckled as he put down his pint and laughed so hard tears streamed down his cheeks. He grinned and leaned forward. “Myc was once sucking me off in the back of his posh car and the driver was going through the traffic lights, anyway he had to slam his breaks on and Mycroft ended up arse over tit on the floor of the car. It wasn’t his fault but he really gave the poor driver a bollocking for messing up his trousers.” Greg grinned. “But he’s not a bad kisser, although he does insist on brushing his teeth before and after… and I’m fairly certain he has a tube of toothpaste to lick when I’m not looking midway through. It’s overpoweringly minty.”

John coughed on his next mouthful and beamed at Lestrade in amusement. “Really? Mycroft does that too? Sherlock is constantly brushing his teeth. He will not be stopped. He says it doesn’t like the taste and feel of his mouth when he doesn’t brush. He brushes his teeth three to four times a day, if that. Whenever we have to go out, be it on a case or even to a bloody restaurant for dinner, he takes this traveling toothbrush and roll of toothpaste with him in his coat pocket!”

The two men fell into a comfortable silence before Greg spoke again. “The thing is,” Greg rubbed his neck awkwardly, “he seems to think he’s some sort of sex God. When he’s topping, for those two or three minutes of thrusting he talks as though he’s a porn star… a bad, cheesy American porn star. He says things like, “Oh yeah baby, take it, take my big hairy cock,” and it’s just… so wrong coming from his posh mouth. I’ve tried asking him to stop but then he gets in a strop because I either tell him to make noise when he’s bottoming, or shut up when he’s topping. He says he can’t win.” Greg sighed. “Maybe he can’t… we have arguments you know. He once described our relationship as ‘The Cold War’ and when I queried it, you know what his reaction was? ‘Well, the Cold War lasted a long time, Gregory, and I thought that was a good thing’.”

John smacked down his glass in disbelief, spilling some of its contents over his fingers. “Yes! Sherlock thinks the same thing! He thinks he’s the master of sex! That he knows all there is to know about the 'art of love making'. He blames me for everything. Whenever I try to sit him down and have a decent, adult conversation about how… how not good he’s doing in the sex department, he just scoffs and gives me this look, as if I’m deluded and I’m the one doing bad,” John exclaimed, pointing at his own chest and laughing shortly. “Me! It’s not me, it’s him! And God do we have arguments. You wouldn’t believe it. I mean, we argued before, but now? Christ—And you know, when he tries to talk dirty or… or tries to give me a compliment even, it sounds so wrong. Yesterday he said to me, 'If you died, I think I’d save the pieces of you I like the most, put them in jars. That or embalm your entire body and keep you in my wardrobe'. I mean, who says that?”

"Your knob in a jar, I could see that happening. Although it could make the false drugs busts more distracting," Lestrade huffed unbelievably. "When I speak to Myc about sex he just gestures dismissively and tells me that perhaps I'm not used to rapid encounters. That my exes have never been good enough to sate me so quickly and that's why I'm not happy... I've actually told him that he's never made me come during sex but he doesn’t seem to hear me..." Greg trailed off. "I would say we should run away together, go to Iceland or Antarctica and live with the penguins but I bet Sherlock and Mycroft would find us within moments."

“Definitely,” John grumbled as he took a large mouthful of alcohol. “Honestly, it’s a good thing I love that man as much as I do. God, I love him so much. And, now this is going to sound completely mad but… in a weird way, I sort of love him more knowing he’s really, horridly, pathetically bad at sex. I mean… I know that sounds so contradictive to everything – we have been complaining about them, after all – but I just… it’s sort of good to know that there’s something he’s bad at. He’s good at so many other things. He’s amazing, fantastic, bloody, mind-blowing, when he’s in his element. Sex just… isn’t it and it’s… frustratingly great—I must sound so insane, right now…I’m going to blame the alcohol… and the fact Sherlock drives me around the bend…”

Greg nodded quickly in agreement. “Myc is always so put together in public, his job is so stressful and he has the whole country to run and keep an eye on Sherlock and then worry about the media and what not… it’s quite nice knowing that he can just relax and switch off at home with me. Maybe when he bottoms he just switches everything off in my mind and enjoys the sensation? And when he tops perhaps he just says what he’s thinking? I think maybe I’ve been too hard on him.” Greg flushed before clearing his throat and offering his pint for a toast. “To our annoying, prickly, social awkward, terrible in bed bastards of boyfriends… who we love a lot?”

“A bit too much, I think,” John chuckled and clinked their glasses together, snorting softly to himself. 

“Anyway, did you see the Hull match the other night? Absolutely ridiculous!" Greg grimaced, smiling at his friend when John threw back his own observation from the game. The DI suddenly realised that he was strangely content with his lot in life.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback fuels us!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Plenty of Fish](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8544181) by [TheSoupDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSoupDragon/pseuds/TheSoupDragon)




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